


The Storms that Brew

by Deductions_of_a_Psychopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John, Doctor John Watson, Doctor!John, Human Sherlock, Illness, Motion Sickness, Nausea, Petulant Sherlock, Seasick, Seasickness, Sherlock's a bit of a child when he's ill, Sick Sherlock, Sick!Sherlock, Sickfic, Vomiting, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath/pseuds/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intrigued by the murder involving a honeymooning couple on a private island, Sherlock would do just about anything to avoid riding the ferry. Things never seem to go his way when a stubborn John Watson is involved, however...Who knew something so simple as seasickness could bring down the Great Sherlock Holmes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storms that Brew

**Author's Note:**

> Posting my first work in over a year! I got this idea last night and wrote an RP prompt based off of it, and then developed some of the things that were included in the RP that followed into this! Sickfics are my biggest guilty pleasure, I'll admit, and if you're reading this I can only assume that they are yours, as well. So here, take Sherlock with seasickness! *runs away* (Also, I would love it if you would leave me a comment. Feel free to give me some suggestions of more fics to write if you enjoyed this one!)
> 
> Also, this is not beta'd or Britpicked or anything of the sort. I haven't even read back through it, honestly. I just sat down, typed, and now I'm posting. Let me know if anything needs altering! Enjoy :)

A murder on an island; how lovely. Honeymooning couple; Sherlock had thought that the murder was celebration enough. John had smacked his arm a bit harder than Sherlock found necessary at the comment, but such things were bound to happen when he was excited. The problem that presented itself wasn’t one that Sherlock was going to completely avoid, but he had certainly tried his best to find other alternatives. He had tried time and time again to dissuade John from taking the ferry and instead finding other means of transport (‘A helicopter! Mycroft has too many helicopters available, we could take one of those.’ ‘No, Sherlock, we’re not taking a helicopter instead of a half hour ferry ride’), but the attempts proved futile. Sherlock was sulking by the time they boarded the ferry, keeping his hands tucked tightly into his pockets, balled into fists. This was ridiculous, why couldn’t they just commandeer a helicopter? It would be faster, more efficient, and they wouldn’t have to deal with the rocking of the boat. Sherlock’s already spoiled mood was soured further when the captain of the small ship announced that they would be experiencing a bit more turbulence than usual due to the storm that was brewing, churning up choppy waters that would ‘shake them about a bit’. Sherlock nearly felt sick at the thought.

He wasn’t _afraid_ of the ferry ride, of course not; it was just the undeniable fact of what the ride would cause that chafed him. Fearing it would be irrational; loathing it, however…that he had perfectly sound reasoning to do.

With his hands still firmly tucked into his pocket, Sherlock sat on a bench containing life vests when the ferry pushed out of the dock, its small motor gurgling as it churned up the water behind them to get the boat moving. He had wasted no time putting up his coat collar as usual, turning it up to protect himself against the wind and the salty spray that would be coming up over the side of the rails. Once they were a fair distance from shore Sherlock turned to face out over the rails, staring at the land that they had left.

John had been enjoying himself quite immensely. It had been ages since he was on a boat, and he had always loved the experience when it wasn’t dreadfully cold. Luckily for him, it was rather nice now; just a threat of a chill on the wind once the ferry gained speed. He saw Sherlock sitting and looking rather displeased, and something about that wasn’t quite right. Sherlock had been so excited up until the point that Lestrade had mentioned the murder was on an island, and the detective hadn’t quite seemed the same since that bit of information was passed on. John had paid no attention to Sherlock’s demands for a helicopter, thinking it was just another way to annoy Mycroft, but now he was beginning to wonder if the displeasure about the boat ran deeper than just a brotherly feud. He walked over to Sherlock, standing in front of him and stuffing his hands into his own jacket pocket. “You’re sulking a bit more than you usually do en route to a murder, especially a double murder,” he said, giving the man a half-smile to try and break some of the tension that was pouring off of him in waves so tangible John could has mistaken them for the sea they were on.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up to John, his expression unchanging as he stood. “I’m not sulking. I’m categorizing the possible theories of the murder in my head by probability,” he informed, leaving it at that and stepping around John to go stand by the railing again. He was feeling a bit too hot, most likely just from the slight anxiety he was feeling over the impending situation, but the spray, however annoying, felt good on his face.  He closed his eyes and let the wind hit his face, cooling him as he gripped the railing. He looked down at the choppy waters, scowling at them as he felt the boat rocking to and fro lightly, but enough to be decidedly unpleasant. He felt John walk up behind him again and he sighed, thinking that maybe complaining would put his mind off the swaying of the boat. “Why do we have to endure this? We could have taken a helicopter just as easily.”  
  
John had heard this argument too many times in the past week. “It wouldn’t have been just as easy, and what’s your problem with a ferry ride, anyway? It’s nice out and god knows you could use the fresh air.”  
  
Oh, that was novel. “There’s nothing ‘fresh’ about having brine containing decaying plants and animals and a frankly alarming amount of excrement spray your face and invade your nostrils,” He said with a huff, wrinkling his nose at the foul scent. How could anyone find the stench of the sea pleasing? Sherlock had never understood it, and it didn’t seem very likely that he ever would. The boat was beginning to rock a bit more now, the waves underneath them stirring up more forcefully from the increasing wind. Sherlock scowled at the churning it caused in his stomach, biting his cheek as he gripped the railing in an attempt to further distract himself. He could nearly feel John’s curious glare wearing at him but he said nothing. John would either figure it out or would remain blissfully obtuse, neither of which had much possibility of pleasing Sherlock.

Five minutes passed and John couldn’t help but cast glances over to Sherlock, noticing each time that a bit more of the color had drained from his already pale face. Sherlock seemed tense and was uncharacteristically quiet as well, especially given the fact that they were on their way to a crime scene. Sherlock repeatedly told John not to form theories before all the evidence and data was examined to prevent bias, but that never stopped the man from verbally taking what he already knew and laying it out on an imaginary table in front of them both, working through to try and piece together things that may be beneficial to forming an overall hypothesis. John saw Sherlock’s chin tuck toward his chest and could have sworn that he had begun to look vaguely green, and that was what finally put him over the edge of curiosity. “You alright?” he ventured carefully, knowing that his assumptions were correct but surely Sherlock wouldn’t want to admit that he was being beaten down by something so simple as seasickness.

Had the doctor asked ten seconds earlier, Sherlock wouldn’t have had a problem with answering. The poor timing, however, was caused by the sudden tossing of the boat on the waves, strengthening the brewing storm in his stomach. The last few seconds had been far more unpleasant than the first ten minutes of the voyage combined, and now he wasn’t certain that he could confidently open his mouth and only have words come out of it. He hated to stand there without responding, knowing that every second that passed would only solidify John’s assumption of what was happening, but he didn’t trust himself to answer. He breathed deeply through his nose and clenched his jaw, finally lifting his head back up and forcing his eyes open, swallowing and turning to John, aware that he probably looked as bad as he was feeling. “I’m fine.”  
  
What a berk. “That’s absolute bollocks, you look greener than the foam down there,” John scoffed, looking down at the foamy water crashing against the side of the ship for good measure. He saw Sherlock’s eyes follow instinctively and felt the slightest bit guilty when Sherlock made some noise that sounded frightfully close to a groan and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

John couldn’t help but reach out to put his hand on Sherlock’s back, stroking slowly in circles. He knew that if Sherlock were in any state to reprimand him that he would be getting quite the earful. Sherlock’s knuckles had gone white where he gripped the metal railing so tightly, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out any sense he could, hoping it would aid him in keeping his breakfast in check. Why had he decided to eat breakfast today, of all days?

“You’ll only make yourself more miserable if you try to hold it back, you know,” John said, and had he been in any other state, Sherlock would have given him the best scowl he could manage. The only thing he did manage, however, was to gag and bend over the railing, his hands shaking as he fought down the nausea against John’s advice. John sighed and silently wondered why he bothered to give his medical opinions when the only person he was trying to help was Sherlock, who never accepted anyone’s help.

Sherlock thought perhaps if he opened his eyes he could focus on something stationary in the distance that would distract and steady him enough to hold down his breakfast, but the moment he opened his eyes and realize he hadn’t lifted his head up far enough to miss looking at the churning water, it was all over. He bent further forward over the railing, feeling pathetic and absolutely disgusting as the tea and toast that he regretted eating made a second appearance in the most unpleasant way he could imagine. He coughed until his throat was clear and groaned as he leaned back over the railing, feeling clammy and unstable. “If you were wondering why I avoid boat rides…” he said, though he knew the information was less than necessary.

John frowned as Sherlock straightened back up; looking far less composed than he usually did, for obvious reasons. “You could have told me that you get seasick. I could have given you something for the nausea, you know,” He said, and the icy glare he got from Sherlock wasn’t softened at all by the illness he was feeling. “Right, not helping. You should sit down, it’ll steady you. Do you want me to get you a bag or anything? I’m sure I can find one on here somewhere,” he said, pointing to the bench where Sherlock had been sitting when they had left the shore.

Sherlock reluctantly accepted the invitation to sit down, thinking that it would be beneficial since it seemed his sea legs hadn’t quite grown in. He swayed as he let go of the railing and started over toward the bench, but regained his balance quickly enough that John didn’t feel it was necessary to intervene. “Why would I need a bag? If my body demands that I vomit again, I have the entirety of the sea to take care of the mess,” he said sourly, his mood not in the least bit improved by what had transpired. This was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was reduced to a basic bodily function by the simple rocking of a boat on turbulent waves. How dull, how _ordinary_. It was maddening.

After a few more moments of silence John suggested that Sherlock stare at the horizon to give him something to focus on, and Sherlock actually complied. That told John everything he needed to know about how affected Sherlock really was by this, as if the vomiting hadn’t been enough to tell him. John drummed his fingers on his knee to pass the time, his reverie broken a few minutes later by Sherlock saying, “How far are we from the island? This is taking ages, I’m in _agony_ ,” with an impressively melodramatic sigh.

“At least another fifteen minutes,” John said, bracing himself for the groan and the eye roll he knew was sure to come from Sherlock after receiving the information. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock slid down lower onto the bench, his frown etching deeper lines into his forehead. “Miserable and potentially murderous,” he said, his expression unchanging. “Fetch a bag if it really will make you feel better, though I don’t intend to be sick again,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t end up eating his words. What a ridiculous notion, hope. It did nothing to change the final outcome, only made the victim more or less disappointed; gave them a fifty percent change of feeling accomplished for doing something that was actually impossible if the situation turned out the way they had hoped. He hugged his arms to his chest and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself again, frowning at the horizon.

“That isn’t up to you, you know, whether you’re sick again or not. Your body will be sick if it feels the need to be,” he said as he pushed himself up to find a bag, seeing a stack of them on a windowsill just inside the cabin behind them. He grabbed one and stepped back out, handing it to Sherlock as he sat down.  
  
Sherlock reluctantly took the bag and tucked it into his pocket, feeling it crinkle. “That’s so _dull_ , though!” he complained in response to John saying that the outcome would be whatever ‘his body wanted to do’. Transport, that’s all it was; bloody _transport_ that shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions without his express approval. Miserable, that’s what this was. Absolutely miserable. The thought that they would end up having to take the ferry back once the storm had moved in fully was enough to make him want to vomit again, but for an entirely different reason. Well, maybe not so completely different.

John eyed him and nearly grinned at the childlike pout that was written across Sherlock’s face. “You’re obviously feeling somewhat better, at least a bit of the colour has returned to your face. That isn’t saying much, though, with how you avoid the sun. You’re not above being human, Sherlock. This happens to the best of us,” he said, hoping that an attempt at complimenting Sherlock would ease the situation. “Things like nausea are what tell us when something is wrong, and your body is trying to tell you that you’re not a fan of the rocking of the ship, is all,” he said, knowing it was dreadfully obvious but still holding on to the hope that maybe mindless conversation would distract Sherlock enough to get through the rest of the ride.

Oh dear god, this was so _dull_.  John was just babbling now, and his voice didn’t sound much different than the white noise of the waves and the wind. “I don’t need the nauseated whims of my body to tell me that I don’t like the ship, I’m very well aware of that on my own,” he said sharply breaking his eyes from the horizon. “Why would anyone commit murder on an island, anyway? I’m sure they were just trying to spite me, somehow knowing that this is my weakness. ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by seasickness.’ I can see the headlines now. Make sure you at least get one photograph of me bent over the railing or with my head in the bag; that will make it more believable. The selling rate of the newspaper will increase exponentially with that story,” he said, looking down at his shoes.

John merely huffed in response and Sherlock took that as the end to the conversation. He had the childish urge to ask John ‘Are we there yet?’ but refrained. They very clearly hadn’t reached the island, proven by the rather annoying fact that they were still on this miserable boat on the miserable sea with the miserable waves and rocking. The same unsettled feeling was beginning to creep back up in his stomach and he stared with determination at the horizon, unwilling to let the same thing happen twice, especially within such a short time frame. John seemed to be growing bored with the ride, obviously detesting the fact that he felt the need to sit so close to Sherlock rather than enjoy the sea breeze or whatever it was the ordinary folk liked to do on such journeys. It was completely unfair, however, how placid and undisturbed John seemed to be while Sherlock was beginning to feel absolutely wretched again. When keeping his eyes open became unpleasant  once more he closed them and leaned his head back to rest against the wall behind them, taking in deep breaths through his nose as he had before. The bag rustled in his pocket and he scowled at the sound; just another reminder that he couldn’t control what was going to happen and that he would be forced to shove his face in a _paper bag_ to keep from vomiting all over the deck if this got bad enough again. It had been under ten minutes; this was _ludicrous_.

Two more minutes passed before Sherlock decided he definitely felt uncomfortable sitting and he resolved to stand, making his way back to the railing as casually as he could. He knew John would see right through the action, unfortunately, but that didn’t discourage him from doing what was necessary. He still had what seemed like a permanent frown painted on his face when John walked over and stood next to him, leaning on the railing. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” Sherlock asked, hoping he had managed to keep some of the misery out of his voice.  
  
John gave him a pitying look. “Without medication, there isn’t much else to be done. Deep breathing, I suppose, just the usual to stave off nausea. Stare at the horizon like you’ve been doing, that sometimes helps.” He offered, feeling rather useless despite the years of medical training and application he had experienced.

That was less than helpful, Sherlock decided. “Sitting and watching the horizon didn’t seem to be working so well,” he mumbled, though he knew that much was obvious from the location he was standing in now, obviously trying something different. “You never feel ill on a boat?”

“Nah, not since I was young. I did get sick on a boat once when I was…oh, eight, I guess. God, it was horrendous. But I grew out of it apparently. Might even have been food poisoning. Don’t really remember,” he shrugged, dismissing the train of thought.

“I’m all too aware how horrendous it is,” Sherlock responded flatly, his expression falling. He swallowed and fought down a wave of nausea that was stronger than he had been anticipating. He blew his breath out between his lips and tried to recite the periodic table backwards as he closed his eyes, hoping that the distraction would be enough to hold him together until they reached the shore, but he knew even when they got there he would have to endure the rough act of waiting for the boat to be tied and docked, which always jostled more than he deemed necessary.  He ducked his head in a feeble attempt to rid his stomach of the unpleasant churning, though he discovered quickly that it was working no better than it had the last time.

John had seemed to catch on quickly to the fact that he was feeling dreadful again, because the doctor’s hand found its way to Sherlock’s back for a second time, moving in small, soothing circles once more. Again, Sherlock didn’t bother to comment on it, knowing that if it made John feel useful in some way, he was better off just allowing the man to do as he pleased.  It was a close call, but Sherlock somehow managed to keep himself from being sick again, realizing that he had succeeded only when he heard the captain’s voice over the announcement system say that they were ready to dock, and could be expected to disembark within two minutes. Sherlock resolved to stay resolute through the next one hundred and twenty seconds, and though he was vaguely green again, he managed to walk off on shaky legs once they were told they could leave. Lestrade was standing with Donovan and Anderson and the rest of the insufferable team as Sherlock and John stepped carefully onto the dock, and the DI’s brow furrowed when he caught sight of how generally unwell Sherlock looked. He was on land now, he should be fine. Solid land; no rocking or swaying or roiling underneath him. Greg eyed him suspiciously as he stepped closer with his hands still stuffed deeply in the pockets of his dark coat, barely managing to ask “You alright, Sherlock? Look a bit ill, if you ask me,” before he received his answer as Sherlock opened his mouth to give what he could only assume was a sarcastic response and turned to the side to vomit onto the rocks along the shore, having at least made it successfully one step onto dry land.


End file.
